The Tiend
by SilverKitsune1
Summary: Every seven years fairies are forced to pay a tiend, and send seven of their own to Hell. One of them has no wish to spend eternity burning, and plans on using Sam to escape the selection.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Tiend

Author: Silverkitsune1

Part: 1/4

Characters: Dean, Sam

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Through In My Time of Dying. Episode one of season two.

Summary: Ever seven years fairies are forced to pay a tiend, and send seven of their own to Hell. One of them has no wish to spend eternity burning, and he'll do anything to escape the selection.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. That right belongs to the CW and Eric Kripke. However, everyone else who shows up here does belong to me.

Author's Notes: Christie has once again provided her wonderfully big anime eyes and betaed this for me.

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_And pleasant is the fairy land_

_But an eerie tale to tell_

_Ay at the end of seven years_

_We pay a tiend to hell_

-Tam Lin; as retold by Jane Yolen

**Chapter One**

When Sam was four, the Winchesters stayed with a nun for a week and three days. Her name was Sister Cecile and she was a friend of Pastor Jim's. Sam doesn't remember much about her, just that she smelled like cherries and had a deep baritone voice that was perfect for telling stories, something she did often. He developed a crush on her, the way small boys develop crushes on pretty teachers or the mothers of friends, and it made John smile thinly and Dean tease him mercilessly.

The first night, after John had said his goodnights and gone back to pouring over books on water spirits, she'd pull Sam into her lap and told him about Ruth, Leah, Miriam, Zipporha, Rizpah and dozens of other women that Pastor Jim hadn't left out of his sermons exactly, but who he hadn't focused on either. The next night, when Sam told Dean he wanted Sister Cecile to tell him his bedtime story his older brother had agreed, but sulked and stayed on his own bed flipping through dog eared comic books, doing his best to ignore the nun and his younger brother.

"Dean." In Sam's memory, there are no lines on the hand that runs through his hair, and the Sister Cecile's skin is smooth and the color of caramel. "Would you like to pick tonight's story?"

"No."

"I wanna hear-"

"Let your brother pick this one, Sam."

"Just tell whatever."

"Are you sure you don't have a preference?"

"None."

"Alright then." And then she began.

_Once there was a good man. He was of aid to all those who asked of it, and even those who didn't. He asked for nothing in return, and kept little for himself. _

_One day, the Lord God looked down upon the Earth and took notice of the Good Man. _

_"That is indeed a Good Man," God told one of his closest angels. "And for his work we shall reward him. Go down to Earth and offer him whatever he asks."_

_The angel obeyed, and by sunset that night she was rapping her knuckles against the Good Man's front door. _

_Because she was worried that her wings might knock over the furniture she asked the Good Man to join her for a walk through his garden, and the Good Man (who was not surprised to see an angel on his doorstep since in those days angels could often be seen on Earth) agreed. _

_"The Lord God," the angel began as the pair passed under the Good Man's apple tree, and the tips of her wings caused the branches to rustle. "Has looked upon you, and is pleased by the life you are leading. So pleased, in fact, that he has sent me to grant you one request. If you wish for anything, simply tell me and it shall be done."_

_The Good Man thought for a moment. "Actually, there is one thing I desire."_

_"Name it," said the angel. _

_"I wish to see Hell and I wish to see Heaven. If I could see both of these places I would truly be a happy man."_

_"Done," said the angel. "Keep your eyes closed, and hold fast to my hand."_

_The Good Man complied, and shut his eyes tight. A warm breeze blew across his face and then the angel spoke. _

_"Open your eyes. We are in Hell."_

_The Good Man obeyed and was shocked at what he saw. There was no fire. There was no brimstone. There were no demons. The Good Man had opened his eyes, and been greeted by a large beautiful field. The grass was soft under the Good Man's feet, and the breeze that blew by his face was warm and comforting. In front of the Good Man was a table so long that he could see neither its beginning nor its end. The table was piled high was food and hundreds, thousands, millions of people sat in beautiful chairs around the table ready to dine._

_"This must be a mistake," said the Good Man to the angel. _

_"There has been no mistake," said the angel. "Walk with me."_

_As they drew near, the Good Man saw that the people were pale and thin, their skin drawn tight around their faces and their bones nearly poking out of their skin. _

_"Why will they not eat?" the Good Man asked the angel and at the sound of his voice a great ululation went up from the people._

_"Look closer and you will see."_

_The Good Man did as he was told, and saw that the people of Hell were bound to their beautiful chairs with bands of iron. The iron formed sleeves that swallowed their arms from wrist to shoulder. It was impossible for the people to bend their arms to lift the food to their mouths. They could only reach to the left and right. _

_"Enough, enough!" cried to Good Man. "I can take no more of Hell."_

_"Then hold fast to my hand and keep your eyes closed," said the angel._

_The Good Man obeyed, and the cries of the damned faded. A warm breeze blew across his face and then the angel spoke. _

_"Open your eyes," said the angel. "We are in Heaven."_

_The Good Man obeyed and was shocked at what he saw. There were no clouds. There were no shining lights. There were no other angels besides his own. The Good Man had opened his eyes, and been greeted with the sight of a large beautiful field. The grass was soft under the Good Man's feet, and the breeze that blew by his face was warm and comforting. In front of the Good Man was a table so long that he could see neither its beginning nor its end. The table was piled high was food and hundreds, thousands, millions of people sat in beautiful chairs around the table ready to dine._

_"You told me we would leave Hell," wept the Good Man who did not think he could stand the sight of the starving damned again. _

_"We have," said the angel. "Look closer and you will see."_

_The Good Man obeyed the angel, and saw that the people of Heaven were also bound to their beautiful chairs with bands of iron. The iron formed sleeves that swallowed their arms from wrist to shoulder. It was impossible for the people to bend their arms to lift the food to their mouths. They could only reach to the left and right. _

_However, these people were well fed and seemed to glow in the sunshine. They laughed and joked, complimented their host the Lord God and sang his praises. _

_"I do not understand," said the Good Man. "What is different?"_

_"Look closer still," said the angel. _

_The Good Man obeyed, and saw a wondrous sight. Each person reached out with the iron sleeved arm to grab a piece of food from the table, but instead of howling at their inability to feed themselves, they simply reached to the left or to the right and fed their neighbors._

_The Good Man saw this, and knew that for the rest of his life he would be completely happy. _

Sam has only small memories of Sister Cecile. The way her voice rose, a gentle crescendo, when the heroine or hero of her stories was about to do battle, the way her brown eyes would smile at him when he asked questions during them and how very tiny her feet had been. If asked he could still recite every story she ever told him, but it's the story of the Good Man and the Angel that stands out in his mind, even at the age of 23, because while Dean had loved it, the story had terrified Sam.

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	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Tiend

Author: Silverkitsune1

Part: 2/4

Characters: Dean, Sam

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Through episode one of season two.

Summary: Every seven years fairies are forced to pay a tiend, and send seven of their own to Hell. One of them has no wish to spend eternity burning, and he'll do anything to escape the selection.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. That right belongs to the CW and Eric Kripke. However, everyone else who shows up here does belong to me.

Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who's reviewed so far! I'm glad you enjoyed the first chapter and hope you'll like the rest of the story.

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**Chapter 2**

It tells Sam to call him Shel. Sam calls it a few other things, none of which are Shel.

The air conditioning in the car is broken, and the unusual October weather, humid and hot, leaves Sam feeling sticky and uncomfortable. The car has been stalled in one spot for over fifteen minutes now, Sam and Shel waiting for the red lights of the railroad crossing to quite down and for the gates to lift. There is a line of cars, trucks and motorcycles lined up behind them. Sam searches for a black 1967 Chevy Impala in the rearview mirror, but finds nothing.

"I was lucky to have found you, Sam," Shel begins without ceremony the train chugging slowly by in the wet, hazy heat "Without you they would have picked me this year."

Shel has an accent that Sam can quite place. It's a thick, and it took Sam's ear a few minutes of tuning before it could pick words out of the long string of melodious static. Sam doesn't have a great ear for this kind of thing, Dean's is better, and he can't get any closer to pointing out an origin past that it's probably from Scotland.

Sam keeps his eyes to the front, watching steel black cars roll past. There are words painted in graffiti across the sides in both English and Spanish and Sam watches swear words, slogans and the occasional name parade before him. One of the words is surrounded by a border of painted flames and Sam is impressed at the detail and the bold use of color.

"She no longer loves me best," Shel continues. "I, who she once called the fairest and bravest lad in the land."

Shel's physical features are nothing to sneeze at. The face Sam has been silently snarling at for the past 100 miles is fine boned with storm grey eyes and long lashes. Dark red hair gleams in the sunlight, and arched eyebrows of the same color hang below a proud brow. Once upon a time, it would have been easy to call Shel the "fairest in the land," but Sam's grown up around billboard beauties and cable T.V. Shel would fit right in on the glossy pages of an Abercrombie catalogue, but it's not like he would outshine any of the other thousands of beautiful people Sam has seen strut down runways or flicker across movie screens. "She's found others who please her more." The red haired man removes his hand from the wheel, and grasps Sam by the chin, forcing the young hunter to face him. Sam's bound hands stiffen, and his bound feet long to kick out. "You're not bad looking," he says. "Handsome enough to be used in the trade, but not so pretty that she'll want to keep you." He pauses. "Though she may take a shine to the color of your eyes." The loud _dinging_ of the train crossing's bells make their announcement. Shel releases Sam and grips the wheel; his hands carefully settle at ten and two like the first time driver Sam suspects he might be. The gates lift, and Shel drives. 

The sun goes down. The forest that borders the road grows thick, and Sam's efforts to free his hands grow in leaps and bounds. The sweat his body is mass producing is a help, and so is the blood that soon stains the rope as the skin from his wrists is slowly worn down by the harsh twine. The knots are tight and the process is painful.

A harvest moon, equal parts pumpkin orange and blood red in color, hangs low in the sky when Shel pulls them into the gas station, a cheerfully lit oasis hidden among the crowding dark arms of the pines and fur trees.

"I won't be long," he says.

He leaves the windows rolled down, and Sam hears crickets happily chirping away in the night. There is one other car in station, a bright blue mini-van that holds a sleeping woman in the front seat and a tired looking man pumping gas into the tank. A little girl, busy scuffing her gym shoes against the flat piece of concrete, stands next to him. The man points to the van's door and squeezes the girl's shoulder before heading in to pay.

"Hey," Sam calls softly. "Hey kid. Kid, come here."

The girl lifts her head, and she glances at her sleeping mother before taking tentative steps toward Sam.

"What?"

Full lips twist into a frown beneath sharp green eyes. She tugs absent mindedly on the corner of one of what must have been twelve braids, and Sam thinks that if Dean and Cassie had stayed together, this little girl may have been what their daughter would have looked like.

"You see that piece of glass?" Sam asks, his eyes flickering to the pile of jagged blue bits sprinkled across the lot. "Can you pick one of the pieces up? One of the big ones?"

She's suspicious, but curious, and she glances at the pile but doesn't move.

"No, that's dirty, and my Mommy said not to touch anything. Why do you want me to do that?"

"I need some help," Sam says, trying to look friendly, trying to look trustworthy and feeling more like a pedophile by the moment. "My friend and I are playing a game, and I need to try to get these ropes off my wrists before he comes back so I can win."

He pushes his hands outside of the open window, and grimaces at the sight of the dirty blood soaked twine.

The girl wrinkles her nose. "What are you talking about? There's no rope."

"Sure there is. Around my wrists."

"There's nothing around your wrists," she insists, stubborn and a little frightened.

A hand, pale and white, falls onto the girl's shoulder. Sam's head rises with hers, and they both meet Shel's stormy eyes at the same time.

"I think your Da is waiting," Shel says, pushing her in the direction of the van. "Run off now."

Shel doesn't say anything, but the tires squeal as they turn sharply out of the gas station. The silence is thick, the low buzzing of the engine filling the space, and Sam has the most bizarre urge to stick his tongue out at his kidnapper.

After a few miles, Shel pulls to the side of the empty road. Shel is a dark shadow as he walks in front of the car, a Grendle with an unpleasant taste in his mouth, and Sam's breath hitches once as he listens to the sound of Shel's feet crunching across gravel and dry dirt. The passenger side door makes no sound as it's thrown open, and Shel hauls Sam out, leaning the young hunter against the side of the car. He checks the knots around Sam's ankles are before lifing Sam's hands for inspection.

"You've been busy," he says, his voice soft and icy. He slices through the rope with a small knife, and twists Sam's hands behind his back to be rebound.

"There's a glamour on you," Shel says. "I put it on the moment we met. You live with the fey long enough you learn a fair share of useful tricks. When they look at you people only see what I want them to see. It is, unfortunately, useless for making people hear what I want them to hear."

"Don't do this," Sam says. "There are ways to get you out of this. My brother and I, we can help you."

"And what would I do in the mortal world, lad." The knots are tight, and Sam grits his teeth against the flare of pain that shoots up his arms. "I've no idea how to live away from the land of the Ever Fair, and I've no one who loves me enough to guide me. I deny your help Sam Winchester."

When Shel spins him back around Sam stares hard into the man's storm grey eyes.

"Shel, exactly how sure are you that they won't like me more. Your lady might still send you off to pay her dept, hand you right over, and keep me around for a few hundred years. No ones ever called me the fairest anything, but I'm an entertaining guy, and I've got the sight. They like gifts like that where you come from, don't they?"

Sam can't say he's surprised when a piece of silver duck tape is pressed over his mouth before Shel shoves him back into the car.

The roads become hilly and the car climbs up stretches of headlight lit road. The moon climbs climes with them, slowly shedding its fire colored gowns in favor of more familiar bone white hues. Sam pretends to doze, his body slack against the door and his breathing rhythmic and slow, but his hands never rest, constantly checking the bindings for weaknesses.

The car turns, and Sam opens his eyes as the car passes a motel sign, the word "Vacancy" glowing in dark orange neon.

Shel parks and exits the car, and Sam is surprised when the man doesn't head for the office to check them in. Instead, he circles the car and opens the passenger side door. Grabbing Sam by the scruff of his jacket he tips the younger man over his shoulder and stands.

"God's wounds you're heavy."

Sam's bangs fall into his eyes, and he feels his face flush from the blood that rushes to his head. Shel starts walking, and Sam squirms, uncomfortable in the fireman's carry, Shel's shoulder digging into his stomach.

A bell rings, and then the black asphalt Sam is staring at becomes dirty yellow tiles.

"Room for the night?" A tired voice asks.

Their room is on the first floor, right in front of where Shel left the car, and Sam wonders if more than a little coincidence caused that to occur.

"I made you look like a sack of laundry," Shel says, dropping Sam onto the room's far bed. "Has my point been proven?"

Sam glares back.

"Good." He pulls his shirt off and tosses it on the bed nearest the door. "I'm going to wash."

The bathroom door shuts, and Sam can hear the harsh stream of the motel shower start up. He's used to these sounds, though usually it's Dean behind a flimsy wooden door while Sam waits channel surfing and hoping there will be hot water left when it's his turn.

The bed-side lamp is on, and it paints the room in shades of dull orange. A painting, a landscape filled with a bright blue sky, flowers and sweet green grass hangs on the wall above the chained down T.V. Despite the fact that the room is sticky and hot Sam shivers.

He's been thinking about Hell a lot lately. Thoughts that bring him back to smooth dark hands, a baritone voice, long tables, claustrophobia and John Winchester. The last is a recent addition. Sam had been five before realizing that he'd missed the moral of Sister Cecile's story by about a mile and three exits. Not that he'd known the word "moral" yet, but he was just starting to understand that there were other things crawling underneath the bellies of his stories, shadowing the words and hanging off the backs of characters like monkeys.

At five he'd gotten the moral, but he was thirteen, and fresh off a fight with John before the shadows and the words finally clicked together in his mind, and he understood where his terror had come from.

To most people, good people, bad people and the ones in-between, the existence of an after life is a question. One that Sam never got the luxury of asking. Demons, Hell hounds, possessions and poltergeists assured Sam at an early age that Hell was, and always had been real. As real as say France or Australia, places that he may never visit, but that he would have been foolish to say "didn't exist." It only made sense, then, that if Hell existed so did Heaven which would have been fine if the Heaven crafted in Sam's mind all those years ago hadn't been just as terrifying as the Hell.

Heaven wasn't harps and clouds, angels and never ending light. Heaven wasn't wandering about cloud covered roads and chatting up Michelangelo and Helen Keller. Heaven was being surrounded by the people you loved and who loved you. All of them together in one spot, forever and always until the end of time whether you wanted it or not.

Sam loves his father, and knowing where he is makes Sam want to howl, but Sam's mind can't stop there. It's not happy stopping at this perfectly acceptable and correct emotion. Sam's thoughts aren't his to control. Whether he likes it or not, his mind has always pushed and pried and picked apart any and every idea and emotion it came across, turning them over and asking/demanding that they release their secretes. Sam knows that underneath the typhoon of grief and pain and fear and confusion there is one clear thought that needs no decoding.

_Thank god it wasn't Dean._

Before it all, before Jess, and the Fight, and full rides to prestigious west coast universities Sam had possessed two things; his family and a hunger for something more. As he'd crawled into the Impala with his clothes still smelling of smoke and Jessica's burning hair, he'd been sure that the hunger for that life was gone. He'd been wrong.

On the road with his brother he had felt angry and hurt, depressed and frightened, but never trapped. With Dean he was a partner, a voice that could speak up and be listened to even if it was done reluctantly. There had been choices with Dean, offers of stability even if they only lasted a short time, and when Sam had walked away from his older brother after angry words and hurt feelings Dean had still wished him safety and luck. He'd let Sam go. It hadn't been perfect, but it had been better.

And then their father had returned and the world had gotten complicated again. Sam may have insisted that they were stronger as a family, but as a family they were also a unit with a chain of command that Sam only fell into under fire when actions and not thoughts were to be praised. It was frustrating to realize that without a gun's blazing, shoot 'em up problem the Winchesters slid right back into old patterns. Sam sure that John was bound and determined to lock down and control him, John certain that his youngest was fighting simply because it was John voicing the commands and Dean caught in-between the two.

Sam loves his dad, but there are times when he wonders if that love is enough. What did it say about him that if seated next to John at that long table in that field Sister Cecile had described years before Sam would be unable to tell if he was in Heaven or Hell?

The water goes off behind the bathroom door. Sam hears the clink and clank of metal against metal as Shel pulls the shower curtain aside. The door opens, and a fog of warm steam that makes air in the room full and wet billows out. There's a dirty yellow towel wrapped around Shel's waist, and water rolls down the man's red hair. Fat drops rain down and land on Sam's chest as the man leans over him, and the hand that covers his eyes, fingers pressing gently into his forehead and temples, is damp. Sam shifts under the treatment, and so misses the unfamiliar word that tumbles past Shel's lips.

The bed smells of human sweat and what Sam thinks might be pot, the remnants of prior guests that may never depart. Sam's body aches and his heart hurts and his mind whirls, and even though he part of him fights to stay awake in the end he closes his eyes sleeps.

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	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Tiend

Author: Silverkitsune1

Part: 3/4

Characters: Dean, Sam

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Through episode one of season two.

Summary: Every seven years fairies are forced to pay a tiend, and send seven of their own to Hell. One of them has no wish to spend eternity burning, and he plans on using Sam to escape the selection.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. That right belongs to the CW and Eric Kripke. However, everyone else who shows up here does belong to me.

Author's Notes: Again, more thanks and big Sam hugs to those that have reviewed!

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**Chapter 3**

The diner is crowded every booth packed with noisy patrons. Unfamiliar eyes fall on Sam's face for a moment, but then quickly move on to take in the orange and black streamers or the construction paper window cutouts in the shape of black cats, ghosts and bats. Sam can't help but wonder what those eyes see in that glance, and if it looks anything like his real face. He imagines Dean walking right past him, unable to see Sam due to a strong batch of fey hoodoo and it makes his stomach clench.

"Sure you don't want anything, honey?" Despite the crowded conditions, their waitress never strays far, and she slides a plate of fried eggs and toast in front of Shel as she asks her question.

Sam cocks an eyebrow. The tape stretched over his mouth is fresh, and his hands were still bound behind his back, though Shel had sliced away the ropes that held his ankles before leaving the motel. Another coil of rope is wound around his arms, the knot digging into Sam's chest, and the length of it stretches across the table and ends in Shel's tight grip. The red haired man gave the rope a jerk out of warning.

"My friend is fine," Shel says with a bright smile and a wink. "Not really one for early meals."

"My brother's like that," the young woman says. "Refuses to eat anything until lunch time. You let me know if you change your mind. Happy Halloween!"

Shel dips the tip of his toast into the center of the egg, breaking though the filmy white cover and swirls the bread around. "You'll eat later."

Sam rolls his eyes, and kicks the man in the shins. It earns him flat grey glare, and Sam sees a well placed gut punch in his future.

Shel picks his way through his meal. He cuts his sausages in half before bringing them to his mouth, and sips his coffee slowly. The sudden sound of a breaking dish didn't cause him to flinch, but as the rest of the diner's patrons start a loud applause for the poor bus boy, the man turns and locks eyes with a white faced young man. He tilts his head to the side, allowing the man a clear look at Sam, who is staring back with a dawning realization.

He's a kid, even to Sam. An eighteen year old in a new University of Madison sweatshirt. He's wide in the shoulders and round in the face. The type of build you'd expect to see in a line backer, and his eyes are so wide that the brown of his irises are almost swallowed by the whites. His eyes fixate on Sam, flickering from Sam's bound hands, to the rope in Shel's hands, to Sam's gagged mouth. He's got one large hand wrapped around the arm of a girl, and his lips are moving quickly. She looks in their direction, and squints, then shrugs and responds. Other people at their table turn to look at what has spooked their companion before shaking their heads or shrugging.

Shel waves, and the kid bolts leaving a table full of confused friends half of whom stare after him, half of whom are still squinting and straining their eyes to find whatever it was that frightened their tablemate so badly.

"We should go," Shel says, soaking up the last of the egg yoke with a crust. "You're not the only one in the world with the sight, and I don't want to be around when he causes a fuss."

Sam feels the pricking of sweat behind his neck as the bell of the diner rings, announcing their departure, and the humidity wraps around him like a thick blanket. Shel winds the rope in and grabs Sam by the elbow as they head down the road and back to the motel.

"Keep up, lad," Shel says. "I've things to do before tonight."

The motel room is no cooler, even with the windows pulled open and the fan running on high. Sam finds himself tipped over and pushed onto the still made motel bed once more.

Shel rebinds Sam's feet, and then disappeares from sight. There is a sound of rustling cloth and clanking metal, and then Shel is standing over him, a bronze dagger in hand. He cuts through the rope around Sam's chest, tossing the pieces to the side before repositioning the dagger at the bottom of Sam's shirt. The first button comes off with a pop, and Sam attempts to jackknife into a sitting position are thwarted by Shel's large hand.

"I've never taken a man to my bed, and I don't intend to make you the first," Shel says, pressing the hunter into the mattress. "Calm down."

Pushing the pieces of cloth to the side, Shel traces his hands along Sam's rib cage, his index finger pausing to trace the dull outline of a scar. "You've seen your share of battles haven't you?"

Shel holds the dagger low by his hip, his free hand splayed across Sam's chest. Sam's heart hammers hard, and he imagines he can see the vibrations from the action work their way up Shel's fingers.

"I have been thinking over your words, Sam," Shel says. "And you're right. There is no certainty when it comes to my lady or her choice. She is as fickle as she is beautiful."

The dagger rises, and Shel rests the tip in the center of one of Sam's oldest scars.

"But my lady's house is an old one. Not the oldest by far, but old enough to have earned its pride. If she were to see the symbol of her rival house on you, it will secure my future. And I suppose yours as well."

The first cut is quick, and the dagger is so sharp that it takes Sam's body a moment to realize that it's been attacked. Even the second cut comes without repercussions, but by the third stroke his chest is burning.

The strokes are steady, and the design intricate. The cuts are shallow, but they bleed and run staining Sam's clothing and the bedspread underneath him. Sam shakes, sweating in the humidity from the pain. His nostrils flare and his body twists away, but firm hands keep him in place.

"It's all right, lad," Shel comforts, speaking around the small pained noises coming out of the young hunter. "I'm almost done. You're doing fine. Just one more stroke and-yes there we go. There we go."

A calloused hand runs through Sam's hair, and the dagger is laid aside. Sam feels the sting of a wet cloth across his wound and then he knows nothing.

He wakes to the coppery smell of his own blood, and a dark room. Shel leans over him, checking his pupils and running a cool cloth over his face and chest. Sam feels feverish and achy, his face sticky and tight.

"You slept for a while," Shel says, patting Sam's knee. "It's almost midnight. This will be over soon."

The bullet that bursts through the motel room window seems to disagree.

Shel screams, his hand going to the back of his head as he collapses on top of the Sam. Sam rolls hard tossing the red haired man into the space between the bed and the wall. Sam hears Shel moan, and sees a pale, blood speckled hand fist through red hair. Head wounds are bleeders, and the bullet only glazed his captor. Sam rolls away from the sight, focusing instead on the harsh thumps, and then the crash as the door is blown open and his brother storms through gun held steadily in his hands. Dean always did know how to make an entrance.

There's something that looks like Vaseline covering Dean's eyelids, and it shines in the dimly lit motel room calling attention to the fury simmering in Dean's gaze. He's across the room in a few quick steps hulling Shel out from the space between the bed and the wall. Dean's first punch connects with the man's jaw, and Shel's head collides with the orange tinted wallpaper. The blow should have neutralized him, sent him spinning into a dark unconscious, but Shel's grey eyes are bright and angry. The red haired man wraps his hands around Dean's leather jacket, and whips his head forward. The crack of two skulls crashing together made Sam wince, and Dean grunts his and attempts to back away.

Shel drops the left arm and pulls Dean's right up slamming his fingers into the muscles and nerves at the wrist. Dean's gun drops from his fingers, but before it can hit the ground his knee connects with Shel's stomach. Shel doubles over, but uses the momentum of the act to tackle Dean around the waist sending the both to the ground. Sam gets a glimpse of the bronze dagger before the fight is taken out of sight, but not out of hearing.

Dean's snarl follows the sound of flesh hitting flesh. There's a scream that seems to shake the room and then, for a few agonizing seconds, nothing but the sound of Sam's heart pounding in his ears and his breath coming quick and painful through his nostrils. Then the moaning starts. Long painful keels that make the hair on Sam's arm stand up.

When Dean's head pops up at the foot of the bed Sam almost weeps with relief. He locks eyes with his brother who grabs him by the shoulders and sits him up. Dean pulls the tape off his mouth in-between patting him down. His hands hover, but don't touch the clotted, red design across his chest, and he mutters something that Sam's foggy brain is unable to make out. When Dean bends down to cut the rope away from his ankles Sam gets a clear view of Shel.

He's still alive, and that in itself is mind-boggling. The bronze dagger stands tall from the spot where Dean drove it through his chest. It must have been longer than Sam remembers because the weapon pins Shel to the shag carpet like a butterfly, the red haired man moaning, writhing, and gnashing his teeth while feebly attempting to pull the dagger out. Red hair halos his head, and dark red blood pools around his middle. He catches Sam's eye and snarls at him.

"This isn't done!"

"Ignore him, Sammy," Dean says firmly, pulling the last of the ropes away from his Sam's ankles. "Turn around and let me see your hands."

"This won't kill me." Sam hears Shel say as Dean prods the knot keeping his wrists bound. "I chose you to replace me, and you will."

Dean grunts at the sight of the ropes. "Jesus Sam."

Sam's laugh is sharp and ill placed, and Dean gives his shoulder a squeeze before returning to business.

The silver tinkle of the first bell is loud and sweet, and the sound echoes through the room muffling Shel's angry torrent of words.

"The hell is that?" Dean snaps.

Sam leans his head back, his wrists still painfully bound, and glances at the burning red clock numbers. "Dean, it's midnight."

The hallow sound of galloping hoofs join the bells, a low beat that layers the high pitched tinkles, a rhythm for the melody. Dean pulls Sam to his feet, eyes darting around the room.

"We have to go," Dean says. Sam's legs are full of pins and prickers from being kept immobile for so long, and they fold under him when he tries to stand, but Dean is there to catch him.

"Shit! Sam, come on!"

Dean's arm loops around Sam's waist and suddenly Sam's off his feet as Dean practically carries him across floor and into the bathroom, pausing only to scoop up his dropped gun as they flee. Sam's legs are like jelly underneath him, he grunts when his back hits the warm bathroom tile, his fingers scraping wildly against the linoleum. Dean presses him into the wall with his back, and the pressure of his brother's jacket makes the fresh wounds on Sam burn.

Dean's free hand disappears into the pockets of his coat and they emerge with a familiar silver flask and a bottle full of dark brown dirt. The sound of the bells and the hooves grow louder as Dean twists the top off the flask and pours the liquid around the two of them. He does the same with the dirt, a circle of wet mud staining burnt orange tiles.

From the other room Shel let out a low moan as the hoof beats came to a stop. The bells, meanwhile, jingle and sing until their bearer stops before the open bathroom door peering at the two of them with an amused curiosity.

She's the most beautiful, the most terrifying, the most frozen thing Sam has ever seen. Dainty green slippers peek out from a silk dress of the same color. Her skin is bone white, the same color as the long hair that's being held tight in thousands of braids that hang down her back, each of them adorned with a ribbon and a gleaming silver bell. The points of her shoes rest on the edge of the mud circle, and she tilts her head at the two of them, her pink lips purse in thought.

"Holy water, and garden dirt," she says casually. "Clever."

Dean doesn't answer, but his eyes and the muzzle of his gun follow her as the Lady circles them. Her eyes are like green blown glass distorting Sam's reflection and bathing the world in frightening twisted shades of green. When she looks away, Sam feels as though he's been released and he can't help but bury his nose in Dean's shoulder like a four year old, the rest of his body shaking. Sam can hear Shel again, begging just out of his sight, and then shrieking again. There's movement in the other room, the sound of a body being dragged across the floor and Shel's cries grow faint and distant. Dean presses against him so hard that Sam can barely breathe.

"I could use him," the Lady says. Sam feels the muscles in Dean's back tense. "Give me your brother and I'll make you rich Dean Winchester."

Sam lifts his head to see as well as hear Dean cock his gun.

"Get out, bitch."

"Give me you brother, Dean," the Lady continues, nonplussed. "And I'll protect him. Even better than you. I'll not use him in the tiend. I'll teach him, and help his gifts grow. I'll love him."

"There are three iron bullets in this thing," Dean barks, "And I will put every one of them in your chest if you don't get out."

"Give me your brother, Dean. And I'll get your father released from Hell."

Sam thinks he makes a sound, but it's masked by the gunshots that explode from Dean's gun. The first bullet sends one of her long white braids to the ground, and the bells make a joyful sound as they hit the tiles. The second hits her shoulder and the red blood is so dark that Sam momentarily believes that fey blood must be black. The dark red liquid seeps through the delicate white fingers as the Lady presses her hand against the wound.

"Very well." Her eyes are hard, like polished sea stones and she taps her small foot once against the tile. "I'll take my leave then. Make sure that we never run into one another again Dean Winchester, or I'll pluck out those pretty eyes of yours."

Sam can see the main door from where he stands, but the Lady doesn't use it. She exits the bathroom with her head high, leaving a trail of dark red behind as she walks. There's the sound of bells again and then silence.

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	4. Chapter 4

Title: The Tiend

Author: Silverkitsune1

Part: 4/4

Characters: Dean, Sam

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Through episode one of season two.

Summary: Every seven years fairies are forced to pay a tiend, and send seven of their own to Hell. One of them has no wish to spend eternity burning, and he plans on using Sam to escape the selection.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. That right belongs to the CW and Eric Kripke. However, everyone else who shows up here does belong to me.

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and read this. I'm always happy to hear from you. Also, thank you to everyone here who reviews who doesn't have an account here! Which at the time of this posting is Kuriei137. So, thank you Kuriei137!

I do have a fic journal on livejournal where I post all my stories silverkit(underscore)fic(dot)livejournal(dot)com (the dots and the underscore are only written out here because this webside doesn't like web addresses.) what's neat is that even if you don't have an LJ account you can comment and I can respond to you properly (Jenilee, if you're reading this I'm looking in your direction since you always leave such wonderful and kind words and I'm never able to respond and thank you properly. If that's not your cup of tea, no problem, but you still get a HUGE thank you and hug from me anyway).

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**Chapter Four**

The sodium yellow light of the street lamps halo his brother's head, and cause the slick grease across his eyelids to shine with an almost ethereal light. Sam sits in the Impala, the door flung open, and his feet on the pavement.

"Dean?"

Dean doesn't answer too busy kneeling in the motel parking lot, sawing the rope away from Sam's hands. Sam means to press, but then the ropes are off. His arms feel as through they've been filled with lead, and the dead weight of them makes a small coil of panic lash out in his gut. Then the sensation floods back in, pins and needles and pain rushing through his blood after three days of having his arms forced into uncomfortable positions. The pads of his fingers are scratched, and his wrists and forearms are a mess of dried blood and sweat.

"All this and you still couldn't get free?" Dean asks, eyeing Sam's bloodied chest, the first aid kit open at his feet.

"Don't be a prick."

They're two states over and one state down before Dean finally pulls the car into a motel. The sun has risen and set in that time and the black star speckled sky looks down on the two of them as they stumble across the parking lot.

Their room is decorated in colors of green and yellow. The lamps are stamped with the imprints of wildflowers that arch around their gold plated bodies, and the carpet is a deep green that fades into matching tiles in the bathroom floor.

Dean leads Sam to the bed furthest from the door, and settles him before disappearing into the bathroom. Sam presses his nose into a slick polyester bedspread that smells like laundry detergent and summer. His arms are on fire, and he can feel the muscles jumping and shuttering underneath his skin. The appendages, for now, are useless to him.

Sam dozes lightly, not quite ready to sleep, but grateful for the opportunity to stretch out and rest. A hand brushes his bangs away and presses against his forehead.

You've got a fever," Dean announces with a frown.

Sam leans into his brother's hand, happy to have Dean so near.

"I need you to sit up, Sammy," Dean says.

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Dean is in no mood to wait for him to comply and manhandles him into a sitting position. Sam's shirt is in tatters, the buttons popped off by Shel like dandelion heads, and both the back and front stained with sweat and dirt and dried blood. When Dean removes the soiled bandages some of the cuts bleed freely once exposed to the air, but others have already started to scab. Sam hisses when the wet washcloth Dean retrieved from the bathroom makes contact with the cuts, and Dean's jaw goes so tight Sam is afraid his brother may crack his back molars.

"What do you have on your eyelids?" Droplets from the corners of the dark green washcloth fall across Sam's jean clad leg, and when Dean lifts his face to Sam the light from the lamp caroms off Dean eyelids.

"It's an ointment," Dean responds. Tossing the washcloth to the side he reaches for the roll of clean white bandages. "It lets you see through glamours. Had to raid some chick's garden for the ingredients."

"How'd you know I'd be hidden by a glamour?"

"I didn't. I ran into a kid outside a diner screaming about a red haired guy and a guy no one else could see correctly. Kept trying to get his friends to call the cops, but no one was buying it."

There are small red freckles of blood scattered across the end of the green comforter, and Sam suddenly feels dizzy and lost.

"What did his friends say they saw? What did they see when they looked at me?"

Dean shrugs his hand busy unwrapping the cotton bandages. "Just a guy."

"Just a guy?"

"Yeah, Sam. A guy."

"With the glamour on would you have been able to recognize me?"

Some of the bandages slip, and Dean grumbles softly under his breathe.

"He was going to give me to Hell, Dean."

Sam feels his brother's hands pause, bracing themselves on either side of Sam's torso. The Dean fastens the last bit of cotton down, and begins to collect the stripes of soiled bandages that he'd scattered across the floor and bed. Dean wads them into a tight ball, his fingers squeezing the cloth tightly.

"I know." Tossing the ball of bandages away, Dean returns to the bed. "I want you to swallow these." Two tan colored pills rest in Dean's open palm, and Sam feels the heat of embarrassment flush through his body when he realizes that his hands are going to prove too clumsy to navigate them to his mouth.

A hand touches his cheek and Dean huffs as he turns his brother's face toward him.

"Did that thing feed you?"

Sam shakes his head. "I think he had a big last meal planned, but we never got that far."

"I'll get you something."

"It better come in liquid form," Sam says, with a strained smile nodding to his limp arms. "Can't exactly lift a fork right now."

Dean shrugs. "I'll help you."

Sam immediately feels something snarl through his body at the thought of being so helpless, so dependant. Some of it must show on his face because Dean scowls at him and flicks Sam's forehead with his pointer finger.

"Don't give me that look. I'm the one who's got to wait on you hand and foot."

Sam shakes his head and looks away. There's a strong sense of claustrophobia piggy backing the sudden anger, and he tries to push both feelings away. Tries to find the grateful, thankful, love emotions that he knows are right behind his stubborn independence.

"It's just for a few days, Sam," Dean says softly. "That's all. A couple of days off for your arms to heal, and then you'll be back to your same annoying, independent, college-boy self."

Sam concentrates on the ache in his arms, the sharp thudding pain that would be his companion. Dean's hands encircle Sam's wrists and Sam looks up to meet Dean's earnest, worried gaze.

"Ok." Sam answers. "Ok."

Some of the tension leaks from Dean's shoulders, and face. He rattles the pills around in his closed fist and gives his brother a smile that's tired and strained, but real. "Good."

The End

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